Free Smuggler's Blues: The Saga of a Marijuana Importer by Jay Carter Brown Page A

The rest is history. Charlie made over two hundred grand in less than a minute, and his reputation in the underworld became sealed and respected. The money Charlie made covered the inventory on his car lot and left a little extra cash for his other needs. As a result, Charlie Wilson, who quit school in grade ten, was well set up with a beautifully furnished apartment and a viable business, all before he reached the age of twenty-five. He drove a late model Porsche sports car, which made sense since he had no children. He was married to a lovely girl that he kept completely in the dark about his criminal activities. Unbeknownst to his criminal friends, who would have razzed him silly, Charlie had once been a teenage fashion model in the Eaton’s department store annual home shopping catalogue that was sent to every home in Montreal.
    I purchased several cars from Charlie and sold them privately from my home. I also bought cars privately through the newspapers and placed them on Charlie’s lot to sell on consignment. I started hanging out at the car lot on a regular basis and when Charlie wasn’t there, I would spend my time talking to his partner Irving. I came by daily to check on the needs of my consignment cars, grabbing a hose when necessary and giving them a quick wash or filling a deflated tire with air. I liked Irving and got along well with him. He was a straight-talking man who had a charming exterior that did not fit well with his reputation as a violent person. Irving had a large barrel chest with skinny arms and legs and eyes that were a bright sparkling blue. He had a mannerism that saw him turning his hands backwards like an ape when he walked that I suspect was developed to cement his image as a tough guy in the can. If he wanted to discuss something private, he would take me outside and walk me around the car lot, taking short, little steps that were a remnant of his prison experience. When faced with an uncomfortable situation, Irving would plant his legs firmly and stand his ground, while his face would flush a deep red showing his desire to leave. He was wellmannered when he wanted to be, although that was often a ploy to get something he wanted.
    Irv and Charlie were both a bit intrusive, in that they were inclined to walk into your house and help themselves to whatever was in your fridge without asking. One time Barbara and I unexpectedly met Charlie in Jamaica and he insisted on taking us on a sightseeing trip to Negril. He took it upon himself to act as our chauffeur and guide, even though he had never been to the west end of Jamaica before. Barbara and I were concerned about eating something before we left Montego Bay on our journey, but Charlie was adamant that we did not have to worry about lunch.
    “They’re all starving for company in Negril,” he said in his most convincing voice. “Don’t worry. Someone will feed us.” The someone he was referring to were the white expatriates living in and around Negril. I thought at first he was joking, but when we arrived at our destination about twelve noon, the first thing Charlie did was hail down a white guy walking along the side of the road. The hippie-looking character greeted us with a cheery “Irie” and stopped to talk to Charlie through the car window. His appearance was a mixture of styles and cultures, with a dreadlock Rasta-type hairdo and Tilley brand designer clothing. He was a slim man, somewhat short in stature, who wore a braided beard that complimented his long, braided hair. His feet were shod with sandals made from Jamaican leather that were stitched to rubber soles made from a car tire. The hippie appeared to have plenty of time to chat on a pleasant day that saw shafts of sunlight spearing through the surrounding foliage. Charlie asked the long-haired man where we could find some food, and after a few minutes of conversation, we found ourselves sitting in the hippie’s thatched home eating his food and smoking his homegrown